


In the Midst of Life

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Challenge Response, Gen, Ghosts, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade attends the annual Solemn Requiem Mass for the last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Midst of Life

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly shorter version of this was originally written for thegameison_sh Cycle 4 Challenge #4: Timeless Requiem.

It was a crisp, bright October morning when Lestrade made his way up the steps of Westminster Cathedral. He’d come to the Catholic Police Guild’s annual Solemn Requiem Mass every year since he was a constable – nearly 22 years now. The cathedral was packed, and the preliminaries of the service had already begun. Lestrade remained at the back, standing as unobtrusively as possible beside the door.

Since this was a special mass, they brought out the big guns. The Archbishop himself stepped forward and began the liturgy.

 _I am the resurrection and the life…he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live…_

Lestrade scanned the crowd and was surprised how easily he was able to pick out Sherlock and John. They were sitting towards the front, John with shoulders sagging and head bowed, Sherlock defiantly upright.

 _We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out…_

His eyes continued to rove over the backs of heads until he found Sargeant Donovan and the rest of his team. He fought the urge to jostle his way through the crowd to join them, not wanting to disturb anyone. __

 _In the midst of life we are in death…_

As he listened to the Archbishop’s sonorous voice, he sensed someone standing beside him. Without looking, he greeted the newcomer.

“Good of you to come, Mycroft.”

“My pleasure, Gregory. I know how important this is to you.”

 _From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord…for they rest from their labours…_   
__

Silence fell over the congregation as the prayer ended. After a brief pause and choral interlude, the Archbishop began reading off the names of the police officers who had fallen in the line of duty that year. Most years Lestrade had known some of the names, others not. This time, a strange sense of anticipation mingled with his grief.

 _David Kent…Mustafa Khalid…Susan Lathan…Gregory Lestrade…_

Lestrade sighed deeply, and then turned to look at Mycroft. “What was it like for you, then? Dying, I mean.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose as if recalling a particularly noisome smell. “Painful. A heart attack is a terrible way to go.”

“A bit of a surprise, too. I thought you took pretty good care of yourself.”

“Yes, I did, though it was probably for nought,” Mycroft replied. “Congenital defect, inherited from my father. There’s only so much one can really do about that, after all.”

Lestrade turned to face the altar once again, though his eyes focused on nothing in particular.

“I only remember the cold.”

Mycroft said nothing. The Archbishop had finished reciting his litany of the departed, and the light, ethereal voices of the choir singing _Agnus Dei_ began to fill the otherwise silent cathedral.

Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the sweetness of the music to wash over him. He didn’t want to ask his next question, but he swallowed the dread that had crept into his chest and soldiered on.

“So why are you really here?”

“I have some business to attend to,” Mycroft replied lightly.

Lestrade gave a chuckle that rattled in his throat like a dry bone. “Occupying a minor position in the celestial hierarchy now, are you?”

“Something like that. I’m to escort you onward.”

“Why you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It helps to have a friendly face in this situation.”

“Yeah, well, no offense but I would have expected my mum, or even my Aunt Gertie, before you.”

“I volunteered, as I was going to be in the neighbourhood anyway.”

“Still keeping an eye on that wayward brother of yours?”

“Two, whenever possible,” Mycroft smiled.

The service ended, and the rustling of programs and gathering of coats and murmurings of _wasn’t that a lovely mass?_ began in earnest.

“Ready to go?” Mycroft inquired amiably, pointing the tip of his umbrella at the open doors behind them.

Lestrade cocked his head at the umbrella. “Do you really need that now?”

“No, but I am a creature of habit, even in death.”

“Where are we going?” He didn’t really expect an answer, but he was reluctant to leave this place, now that his departure was imminent.

“You’ll see.”

“Still a cryptic bastard. That hasn’t changed either.”

The corners of Mycroft’s eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “I do enjoy my little surprises. Shall we?”

Lestrade remained rooted to the spot. “Do I have a choice?”

Mycroft’s smile faded, and though his look became quite serious, it was not without tenderness. “You always have a choice, Gregory.”

Lestrade looked around at the crowd of people, now up and moving all around and through them. He caught sight of Sherlock leaving through the door to his right. Several paces behind, John walked with a comforting arm around Donovan’s shoulders, though it was John’s eyes that were puffy and swollen from tears.

“Right, then,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Mycroft extended his free hand and Lestrade took it, and the world fell away to a shroud of fine mist, and was gone.

****


End file.
